Let’s hear it for the fairy cakes (From The Northern Echo)

Let’s hear it for the fairy cakes

10:46am Thursday 26th November 2009 in

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IN a weak moment, I agreed to buy the seven-year-old a huge, brightly coloured, hideously expensive, iced cupcake in a trendy cafe.

I could see why he wanted it, for this was no ordinary bun. It looked so good in its pretty paper casing, its thick, creamy frosting whipped up into a peak, decorated with tiny little stars.

It was bold and brash, much bigger and brighter and frothier than a traditional fairycake.

Of course, I knew that he would take one bite and spit it out because cupcakes are all style and no substance.

They’re too sweet, too gloopy and tend to be made with oil rather than butter, so they’re greasy too. And, all too often, the glycerine in the icing gives them a bleachy aftertaste.

And yet, they seem to be everywhere.

You see them all over the pages of our glossy, colour lifestyle magazines.

At picnics, birthdays or tea parties, pretty plates of cupcakes seem to go hand in hand with Boden clothes and Cath Kidston vintage oilcloths and retro aprons.

Couples have towers of cupcakes at weddings now. There are shops dedicated to cupcakes and companies that will deliver cupcakes for any occasion – corporate cupcakes, thank-you cupcakes, get well soon cupcakes and birthday cupcakes.

There have even been a few impressive cupcakes appearing on the home baking stall at school.

But there is something about this cupcake boom that makes me feel slightly sick, and it’s not just the taste of this sugary confection. It’s the wholesome, domestic goddess image – albeit with a touch of 21st Century irony – that has built up around them.

Cupcake pedlars are contriving to sell us a nostalgic dream, about childhood, home life and motherhood – a dream that has no bearing on our reality.

As I looked at Albert’s rejected cupcake, it occurred to me that, far from being a part of my childhood traditions, this – just like Halloween trick or treating – is a big, fat American interloper.

Just as the grey squirrel has been squeezing out our indigenous red variety, the cupcake is trying to edge out our own little fairy cakes, gradually eroding a tradition that goes back for generations.

My fond childhood memories are of baking little, sweet unassuming buns in paper cases. We would dribble them in icing and then sprinkle them with hundreds and thousands or chocolate buttons. They looked charming and tasted good. What could be more perfect?

“Do you fancy going home to bake some buns?” I asked Albert. His eyes lit up. The campaign to save our traditional fairy cake starts here.

JUST to illustrate the ridiculous heights the hideous cupcake boom has reached, I came across a cookbook a few days ago called Pupcakes, by Stephanie Mehanna, who runs a bakery for dogs in Essex. As if we don’t have enough to do, Stephanie is now encouraging us to bake cupcakes especially for dogs. On the front, is the picture of a pup gazing longingly at a cupcake with a cat’s face on it. “Gone are the days when dogs were fed leftover scraps from the table! Treat your furry friends to a selection of tantalising bakes, guaranteed to tickle his tastebuds... the perfect pupcake for every occasion,”

says the blurb. Read it and weep.

YOUNG children are useless at keeping secrets. Seven-yearold Albert had been badgering me for days about what the mystery gift was that his granny was sending his brother, Roscoe, in the post.

“Roscoe doesn’t want to know, he wants it to remain a surprise. If I tell you, you’ll let it slip out,” I told him. “I won’t. I won’t,” he kept saying.

“Please tell me, Mum. I promise I won’t repeat it.” Eventually, he wore me down with his pleading.

Roscoe and Albert were both in the kitchen. “I will whisper it very quietly to you, and Roscoe must put his hands over his ears,” I said, before adding: “Now, you won’t repeat this, will you?” Albert promised he wouldn’t so I bent down and whispered very quietly: “It’s money.”

Roscoe took his hands off his ears.

There was silence for a few moments.

“I won’t tell him, Mum, honestly”

shouted Albert, grinning smugly at Roscoe. And then he added: “How much is it anyway?”